


Thirty Percent

by Dewdrop1999



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Essentially just poor decisions on Neal's part and Peter doing his best, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28803441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewdrop1999/pseuds/Dewdrop1999
Summary: His shoes were becoming scuffed, but that shouldn't have been his main concern.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	Thirty Percent

His shoes were becoming scuffed. 

That shouldn’t have been his main concern, but Neal had learned from years of thieving that the smallest details could make the difference between a successful con and one that ended up with him being caught, or worse. Unfortunately for him and his shoes, this latest endeavor seemed to be trending towards the latter conclusion. 

The reason behind the heels of his Santoni shoes being worn down to nothing was simple: impatience. A warehouse stood rife with sapphires and jades taunting Neal to hold them before handing them over. Peter had ordered him to not make contact with the traders until Monday, when the full faculties of the FBI could be implemented. But Peter said a lot of things, all the time, only some of which Neal deemed worth listening to. And so it was that he found himself shoving pedestrians aside as gently as possible as he crossed the nearest bridge and was pursued by a group of very angry and determined men, one of whom had recognized him from a prior escapade gone wrong. 

In his haste to put as much distance between himself and the men as possible, he’d only managed to shoot a quick text to Peter: _Made contact. Didn’t go well. Help?_

Saturday was date night for the Burkes, and with the sight of the sun setting along the river, Neal could almost picture them just being seated at that new Brazilian restaurant Elizabeth had wanted to try, eagerly anticipating a night absent of the usual controlled chaos that plagued Peter’s days. And then Peter’s phone would buzz, and he’d give El a look she knew all too well as he called his CI on speed dial- just like he doing was right now. 

“Hey Peter,” Neal said into the phone, trying to keep his gasping to a minimum. “How’s dinner?” 

The men behind him put on a new burst of speed as he neared the middle of the bridge. The pedestrians which Neal had apologized to profusely for colliding with were thrown carelessly to the side, and he winced as one landed in what looked to be a bone-breaking position. 

“Two minutes,” was the terse reply, full of barely restrained panic. “Two minutes until backup can reach you.” And, beneath that, a hidden question: _Is that fast enough?_

It might’ve been, had his quickly depleting luck not run out just then. Ahead of him, a car careened and crossed lanes until it rammed into the railway of the bridge on Neal’s side. Emerging from the vehicle as though they hadn’t just endured a violent collision were three men appearing eerily similar to the ones running behind him. The FBI had suspected that the jewel traders they knew of had further connections on the other side of the river. At least some new information could come to light from this fiasco. 

“I don’t have two minutes.” He skittered to a halt, knowing running would no longer do him any good. Crossing the street to the other side would prove damn near impossible, and he doubted with his current number of pursuers that one wouldn’t be able to catch up to him. The bridge only had one main level, and the columns were thick and without easily accessible ladders to prevent any daredevils from attempting a climb. Which left him with only one direction. 

“I have to take the bridge,” he murmured. That comment had been mostly for himself, forgetting for a moment that Peter was still on the phone. 

A beat of silence. Then, slowly, “Neal, you’re already on the bridge.” 

“Not for much longer,” he laughed, cringing inwardly at the edge of hysteria to his voice. Heights had rarely ever bothered him, but he’d never tried to brave them with so little planning before. There would be no tram car he could leap across this time, nor parachute to slow his fall. Today it would just be him, gravity, and the water below. 

He slipped off his shoes, the gum-stained pavement beneath his feet morphing into cold metal as he stepped onto the railing, one arm hugging half the nearest pillar for support. He’d only risen a few feet with that maneuver, but already the wind seemed stronger. The waves below were cast in orange and yellow light, white foam leaping into the air as they crashed into one another. On a different day he could have admired that sight. 

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Neal, _don’t_.” 

A stab of guilt pierced his panic at the catch in Peter’s voice. He’d put that there. 

Dimly, he realized Peter was still talking, and talking fast. “Just one minute now. I’m on my way, too, so you’ll be fine, you better be. Stall them, you’re good at that, right? Just-” 

“Peter,” he said, unable to tolerate the babbling any longer. If these were to be his last few moments, he’d be damned if he didn’t manage to get a word in edgewise. “Do you know what the chances are of surviving a drop from this height?” 

Silence again. That’s how Neal knew his partner was truly terrified. Time for reassurance. 

“It’s thirty percent.” A grin broke out on his face, unbidden. He’d done more with less odds, and he found that truth quite funny, so he laughed again. “So, I’ll see you in thirty percent, okay?” 

“Neal, _no_ -” 

A shot rang out, whistling just past his ear. His feet reacted faster than he could, socks slipping easily from metal to the open air beneath. As his hands flailed and his hair was whipped by the rush, he hoped that someone would stop to retrieve his shoes. 

*****

He came back to himself in pieces. 

Jarring bits of freezing agony were followed by a blissful expanse. Scattered conversations, and maybe the sound of his name a few times, served as a steady undercurrent that kept him from fearing what blanketed him. Soft laughter. 

And finally, a voice saying, “Welcome back.” 

He’d opened his eyes, but it took several blinks for his brain to catch up with them. There was bright light above, Peter leaning forward, and a dark window behind him. Even then, everything was still blurry like a Monet painting, though he doubted Monet would have been able to understand half the wires poking out of him right then. He himself was only starting to grasp the reality of his surroundings. 

He remembered the words that had been spoken to recall him back to consciousness. “Where’d I go?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange, far away and much too soft for his liking.

Peter frowned. “Into a river.” 

“Oh.” The ache in his left shoulder and the raw feeling of his feet, as well as the strange look being cast his way right then, suddenly made all the more sense. “Right. The guys who were chasing me…?”

“Taken care of. All six of them, thanks to you- for black market activities and carrying and use of illegal firearms against a federal consultant.” 

Peter eased back in his seat as he spoke, a lilt entering his voice that Neal was familiar with. Here, he knew, was the point at which he was supposed to provide a quick and witty remark about how he was indeed very useful. Instead, the most eloquent response he could muster was, “Huh. Good.”

“Yeah.” Peter nodded, biting his lip as though weighing something. When he lapsed into silence, Neal’s eyes began to drift closed. It was at the corner of his consciousness that he heard the murmured words, “You lied to me.”

That was enough to rouse him, small alarm bells going off in his already aching head. “I did?” Avoidance and elusiveness, he’d often practiced around Peter, but even in his fugue-like state, he knew that at his full faculties he had scarcely ever told an outright lie to the man before him. “What about?”

“Your chances on that bridge. While you were unconscious for a week, I had some time to look into-”

The bells morphed into sirens, loud and wailing in a way too vivid to not be a memory. “I was out for a whole-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said quickly. “You’ll be fine now.” Absently, he patted Neal’s good arm. There was a slight tremor to his hand. “Like I was saying, I had time to check out that statistic you seemed so confident in, and it was wrong. It was twenty-seven percent.”

Neal let out a huff, even managing to roll his eyes. “I knew that. I rounded up.” 

“Ever the optimist, huh?”

Shrugging his good shoulder, he quipped, “One of us has to be.”

They both chuckled then, though Neal stopped abruptly once his chest began to ache. As he rode the wave of pain, Peter called for a nurse, who busied about increasing the dose of whatever they were pumping into his system. He hardly heard her calming words of explanation concerning his condition, only returning to some degree of awareness once she had left the room and the medication began to take effect. 

Though he felt drowsy once more, he still had enough stamina to observe. Peter remained in the same chair but was leaning further back now, his head tipped towards the ceiling as though in silent prayer. There were shadows under his eyes and stubble on his chin that hadn’t been there the last time they’d bid adieu on Friday night. 

“What’s wrong with you?” His croaking voice came out as a surprise to both he and Peter, whose gaze flashed from the ceiling back to the man lying before him. 

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? I’m not the one who jumped off a bridge.” 

“Could have fooled me.” Peter gave a smile, but it was clearly forced. “You’re not angry?” 

“Not angry?” he repeated incredulously, in that dangerously low tone Neal knew meant louder words were to follow. “Oh, I’m beyond angry. I mean, how the hell could you-”

Peter stopped himself suddenly, looking away for a moment and breathing in and out. His hands curled into fists in the blankets at Neal’s side. “But I’ve been told many, many times by your doctors that you shouldn’t be put under any ‘unnecessary stress’ while you’re recovering.” One hand uncurled, a single finger extended pointedly in Neal’s direction. “So hurry up and get better already, and then we can have a nice long talk about how I’m feeling.”

“Sounds great.” It didn’t take much for him to force a yawn, though he did take pride in the dramatic stretching of his good arm. “You know, _I’m_ feeling really tired right about now. Might need another week, or a month, or _two_ until we can have that conversation.”

Peter laughed, shaking his head and mirroring the younger man’s grin. “However long you need.”

Neal fell back asleep soon after that, but not before he caught the sight of something at the edge of his bed. There lay his pair of Santoni shoes, the heels repaired and the tips shined enough that the sun might envy them.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel silly for even clarifying this, but just to be safe: do not jump off of bridges guys. Based on the (very minimal) research I've done and the statistics I've fabricated, it's generally not a good idea.


End file.
